_2nd Heat:_ _Trumps, 1st_; _Lizzette, 2nd_; _Ben Butler, 3rd._ _Time_, 2:15-1/2. The old man looked at it in wonder: "Two fifteen an' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind? My God, can we make it--can we make it?" His heart beat wildly. For the first time he began to hope. Trumps now had two heats. As the race was best three out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker of Tennessee would win the race and the purse. But when the old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye told him the gallant gelding was all out--he was distressed greatly--in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced at Lizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. His heart fell. "Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette--what will Travis do?--Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!" It was too true, as the next heat proved. Away Trumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxing the old horse and driving him as only a master could. "They're at it ag'in--ole hoss, what fools! Whoa--steady there! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see--No sand left in his crops, cooked--watch an' see, oh, my, Ben Butler--there--he's up now--up an' done fur--Go now--move some--hi--" Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the head of the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clip which Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse was sadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh and blood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken, tired break. It was then that the old man began to drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, the old pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as the old time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behind he even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette's sulky, and clung determinedly there, right up to the wire, beaten only by a length. Lizzette had won the heat. The judge hung out: _3rd Heat:_ _Lizzette, 1st_; _Ben Butler, 2nd_; _Trumps distanced._ _Time_, 2:20. Lizzette had won, but the crowd had begun to see. "The old pacer--the old pacer!"--they yelled. Travis bit his lip--"what did it all mean? He had won the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there they were yelling for the old pacer!" The Bishop was pale to the roots of his hair when he got out of the sulky. "Great hoss! great! great!" yelled Bud as he trotted along bringing the blanket. The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment, amid the crash of the band and the noise of the crowd: "Dear God--my Father--I thank Thee. Not for me--not for Ben Butler--but for life--life--for Shiloh--and Cap'n Tom. Help us--old and blind--help us! O God--" Col. Troup grasped his hand. The Tennesseans, followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too, was there--chagrined, maddened--he too had joined his forces with the old Bishop.